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ID • OT«'ER^ ' POEMS 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



AN EPIC OF HEAVEN 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

EDWARD S. CREAMER 

Author "Adirondack Readings'* 




BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

83 5 BROADWAY, NEW YORK 

BRANCHES : ATLANTA. BALTIMORE. FLORENCE. ALA. 



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Cop3'right, 1910, 
BY 

EDWARD S. CREAMER. 



(gClA288006 



CONTENTS. 

An Epic of Heaven. 7 

Poetry and the Poet lo 

Legend of the Sabbath 1 1 

Intimations of the Future 13 

The Deacon's Daughters 15 

A Voyage with Darwin 16 

Song of the Uplands 18 

Outside the Narrows 19 

Two Weeks in the Woods 20 

The Boston Famine 21 

Above CausaUty 23 

On the Bronx 24 

Tapestries , 25 

Prometheus Bound . ., 26 

The Legend of Love 2^ 

The Man in the Moon 29 

The First Butterfly 30 

The Woman in Camp 31 

Sometime, Somewhere 33 

An Incident in the Servian Army 34 

The Robins' Anthem 35 

After the Battle 36 

Cardinal Manning's Paltry Purse 37 

Roaming Through Woods 38 

The Two Blossoms. 39 

At the Gate 41 



CONTENTS. 

The Three Kings 42 

The Veteran to His Canteen 44 

The Fall of Tantalus 46 

A Wail for Walt Whitman 47 

The Poe Cottage 48 

The Unity of Man 50 

After the Masquerade , 50 

On the Front Platform 52 

Genius 53 

The Poet 54 

Not Unknown Into Themselves 56 

A Pillow of Pine 57 

The Wild Rose 58 

Received from a Child 59 

To a Brother 60 

Sweet Rest to Him 61 

Thanksgiving Day 62 

Song — Her Irish Blue Eyes 6;^ 

Apples Fall 64 

John Howard Payne 65 

Easter ^ 66 

When George Gets Married 67 

Idiosyncrasies 69 

The Washington Statue 69 

A Good Night to Sorrel 72 

The Comforter 73 

The Rock Road 74 

The Sparrows 75 

Helicon ., 75 

The Bird of Hope y6 

A Morning Thought -^y 

Indian Summer Days... yy 

On the Nile 78 



CONTENTS. 

The Imprisoned Robin 79 

On the Hudson 80 

A Tawny Head from Egypt 80 

Continuity ,. . 81 

The Angelus 82 

The Harp of Whittier 83 

A Poet — Tennyson 83 

Two Wreaths for Glasneven 84 

The Wood Thrush's Song 85 

To the Planet Jupiter 85 

Ward's Shakespeare 86 

The Catbird's Song 87 

The Portrait 88 

Christmastide 88 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 89 

Washington Rack, New Jersey 90 

Creation 91 

Warm Days in December 91 

John Brown ; 92 

Story's Semiramis 93 

The Month of Months 94 

On the Frontier 94 

Eugene Fields 95 

Well Brought Over from Holland 96 

Some Divine Steps 96 

My Horse 97 

To the Shade of Walt Whitman 98 

New York City 98 

Passed Over the Bridge 99 

Better Than He Knew 100 

A Mid-Summer Thought 100 

The Poem , loi 

Bells of Morning 102 



CONTENTS. 

Never Saw the Stars 102 

Music 103 

A Village Maid 103 

Book Catalogues 103 

God 104 

One Day 104 

Theology 105 

The Trend Toward the Sky 105 

Brain Gone Astray 106 

Destiny 106 

One Faithful Listener 107 

The Rainbow 107 

A New Year's Night of Long Ago 107 



Axk Epic of Heaven 

I. 

THE future life idea is innate, 
Roseate with gleams of vistas wonderful; 
Bestowed like sense of touch or that of sight, 
And in the numerous chambers of the brain 
Is about tangible as anything, — 
Life has no ending to the teeming soul. 
To bury Hope we meet with poor success. 
Human nature is not abandoned here. 

The valleys and the mountains of our dreams, 

Though many and though varied in their moods, 

Are not Imagination's progeny. 

The only limit to the spirit's sight 

Is that its case of flesh doth compass it. 

Our dreams are faintly markings of the truth ; 

There is no image but may not be real. 

Life and its possibilities we guess, 

And, gazing at our fullest, there is still 

Hills upon hills, far, far, beyond our ken. 



an dBpic of l^eatoen 

II. 

The principle of Motherhood cheers the heart. 

Caressing her first born the matron young — 

The two so innocent, so lacking art — 

Become a picture of true loveliness ; 

One of the purest sights bestowed on earth, 

Nor may the angels have a better one. 

In humble life, as in wealth's rosy ways, 

The glory is the same, of equal rank ; 

Nor strange that they're revered by a great 

church, 
Or that home's centered in their atmosphere. 

III. 

When in his growth man happiness attained. 
In lines of life which gave him fullest joy, 
Having the blood of fellowship in his veins 
He fervently would lengthen out its years; 
Picture it with his loftiest gifts of soul ; 
Therefore he built in earnest faith a state 
Supremely blest, to hold perpetual. 
A land where were united atoms pure ; 
A land where were united kith and kin ; 
A place of rescue from the grave and death. 
Within were angels glorified and rare 
With the Creator and the shining hosts. 
Within were souls once habitants of earth ; 
The chief wish of each nation fruitage found. 
Within were instruments and voices thrilled 
With all the harmonies mind may enjoy. 

8 



an (Epic of l)tmm 

All of the paraphernalia of our hopes 
Were harvested together in this land 
Of immense area-room enough for all, 
Deserving and desirous of its worth, 
Placed in the spaces, to be known as Heaven. 

IV. 

The coming to us of Jesus, the Christ, 

Whose character is illimitable ; 

The promise of the prophets and the seers ; 

The best thought of the peoples of all lands ; 

Is a grand volume of the sacred books, — 

A monument of celestial charity. 

The Son partaking of the Father's gifts; 

A path of safety and felicity. 

Though our opinions of Him may vary. 

May change through obsessions of care and 

doubt ; 
Of circumstances, of environments, 
That may shift like the colors in the sky. 
He is unchangeable as the trend of things; 
The Star of morning, heralding the good. 
The sublimest development by far 
That may be known within this planet's life. 
The wing of Faith, the Light of all the world; 
The sanctum sanctorum of the Temple ; 
Our divine Brother, more divine by far 
Than our mentality may conceive of, — 
We only partly know Him at our best. 
A demonstration, tenderly, to win, 



an (Epic of !^eaben 

To instruct, look up to and imitate — 

Though at our failings angels may well sigh — 

And draw us with the magnet of His love. 

V. 

The use and not abuse of faculties 

The body and the mind in exercise. 

The heritage of our humanity, 

Given to us in the Divine essay 

Under potential opportunities — 

Diversified with all the airs that blow — 

Is the natural acme of existence : 

The Hope of hope, the House not made by 

hands, 
Here or elsewhere — eternal in the Heavens! 



POETRY AND THE POET. 

AS the spirit never can 
Be utterly bestowed on man, 
Nor can his most persistent view 
Take in its every shifting hue, 
For its majesty might mock 
And its loveliness might shock, 
So its forms and apparitions, 
Lineaments and swift monitions 
Of heavenly beauty give a hint 
Or a half-toned mental print 

10 



an (Bpit of ^eatjen 

Of the glory and the power 

Of our life's most perfect flower. 

Thus the poet's fair ideal 

He will never all reveal; 

In the essence, in the soul, 

He can apprehend the w^hole; 

And in some inspired hour 

He may revel in its power; 

But his conscious modesty 

Will not let the worldly see. 

So he dresses his ideal 

Out in clothing bright and real; 

Plans the garments she shall wear, 

Shows the color of her hair ; 

Picks the jewel or the flower 

He would give her as a dower. 

While the truth complete he can 

Never yield to mind of man. 

Yet the earth receives some gleams 

Of divine light from his dreams. 

II II II 
LEGEND OF THE SABBATH. 

TO Michael the Archangel came the mandate, 
well 
To guide St. Paul through Heaven and then 

through Hell; 
They visited the Heavens and saw therein 

II 



an (Epic of l^eatjen 

Felicity and beauty with no stain of sin ; 
Each spirit there symmetrical and wise; 
Pure heavenly joyousness to all ears and eyes; 
St. Paul was happy, and aloud he cried: 
'Tor this He lived, was crucified and died, 
And the result is ample for the deed 
Of Him by Whom from Death mankind was 
freed." 

The Archangel Michael with the great St. Paul 

Went down into the Hells, and saw them all. 

But the Apostle, at the fearful mark 

Evil had made, and with it all the dark 

Distress of soul, and bodily agony, 

Was shocked with sympathy, as he well might 

be, 
And to his escort earnestly he cried : 
''Have they no respite here?" to which replied 
The Archangel : "No Sabbath know they here, 
But evermore these scenes of woe and fear." 

Then to the Master, prayerfully Paul said ; 
"Lord, I have seen the wicked, doubly dead, 
My heart, dear Lord, is burdened by their fate. 
Though their transgressions from Thy laws are 

great. 
Grant Thou a day of rest to these forlorn 
In memory of Thy resurrection morn !" 
And ever since, the wise are wont to say. 
The wicked rest in Hell each Sabbath Day. 



12 



9n (Epic of J^eat)en 



INTIMATIONS OF THE FUTURE. 

WHILE the soul is Idly musing, 
On thoughts not of its own 
choosing, 
Oft there come clear intimations, 
Intuitions, inspirations, 
Telling of a future life. 
Far beyond this mortal strife; 
And to-night, as we are going 
With the current gently flowing, 
Come lovely sentiments of peace, 
And the mind asks no release 
From the blessing of their charm. 
Holding us from every harm. 

We drift along the sacred walls, 
Where the ivy's verdure falls. 
And we think upon the graves 
Whose grassy brink the river laves, 
While the night is all around, 
And the stillness is profound. 
Save the moving, active part 
Of each palpitating heart. 
As we float upon the stream, 
In a sort of mystic dream. 

But see, as we approach our home, 
How the great cathedral dome, 
With its lofty golden spire. 
Wears a crown of seeming fire 

13 



an (Epic of IDeatien 

In the fluctuating light 
Gleaming from the north at night, 
With its colors green and red, 
Where the electric shafts are spread! 

And hark ! across the quiet waves, 
From the dim cathedral naves, 
Come sweet voices, singing lays. 
Quaint and sweet, of other days. 
When the Saviour and the saint 
Were on earth without a taint ; 
How the wonders that they wrought 
Were beyond all human thought; 
How their benisons abide, 
And how He w-as crucified. 

Now they move in happy staves — 
Those soft voices — o'er the waves ! 
Coming down from Jacob's stair. 
Where glide the blessed angels fair, 
Or God's children rest at night, 
Ere they mount into His sight. 

How calm, how sweet this singing! 

Surely from celestial lands, 

Over boundles golden sands. 
Are the echoes winging! 
They fall with soothing on the soul 

That has long with pains contended, 
Presaging rest, as when the goal 

Is reached and travail ended ; 
Where hope and faith do close in sight, 
Beyond our thought, of pure delight. 

14 



an Cpic of J^eatoett 

May we see and hear this way 
When shall come our closing day; 
When shall come the twilight hour ; 
When grows weak our vital power; 
When we're nearly done with life — 
With its sorrow and its strife ; 
When our hearts are waxing old, 
And even fears and hopes are cold, 
In our darkness and distress, 
Longing for God's tenderness. 
In that hour, oh, let there come 
A great brilliant light from Home, 
With rich love and blessings rife, 
Ushering in the better life ; 
Voices singing, may we hear. 
Hopeful pseans, calm and clear. 
From the mansions we shall see. 
Welcoming both you and me. 



II II 



THE DEACON'S DAUGHTERS. 

THE deacon had three daughters, lithe and 
fair. 
Girls with three-story heads, handsomely domed. 
Lovable, beautiful, spiritual, that could 
Bring down in joy the best of heaven to earth, 
And raise the hearts of earth in thanks to 
heaven. 

15 



an ©pic of i^eauen 

Humanity reached a his/her plane in them, 
Yet had no cause to blush at its success. 
Certes they had to eat, to drink, to sleep, 
To sew, to scrub, maybe sometimes to delve 
In the old-fashioned garden full of flowers ; 
Yet never seemed they wantinj^ much in that 
All indescribable that is from heaven, 
No less than earth, that subtile comeliness 
Belonging only to the high belongings 
Above the cadences of this great world. 

What shall we say about them, praise or blame? 
Blame them for glorifying this our earth? 
Praise them for blooming like three lovely flow- 
ers? 
Let us give thanks that such as they exist; 
Let us give thanks that we, too, are alive 
To comprehend, admire, and freely bless. 



^^i ^^^i ¥r^h 

A VOYAGE WITH DARWIN. 

FROM the teeming, slimy masses 
Floating in the ancient seas, 
Till evolved through numerous classes, 

Craft for mightier destinies. 
Many a robust race had vanished 

In the slaughter to subsist — 
Many an appetite had been banished 
In the struggle to exist. 

i6 



an (Bpit of ©eauen 

Until a time when were evolved 

Two craft, alike as brothers, 
Earth's highest type in them seemed solved- 

More complex than all others 
Ere this, that did the earth control, 

Within the eons rounded. 
All others seeming lacked a soul. 

Though myriadly they abounded. 

When off these two craft proudly sailed, 

First parallel courses took they ; 
But ere a score of centurief hailed 

For different prizes look they — 
Till different aim, with consequence. 

Wrought changes, now prevailing, 
That not surprising men of sense 

Doubt they looked alike when sailing. 

One with some permanence of course 

Lost its sails in winds that blow; 
And, lacking either mind or force, 

Beached in woods was, long ago. 
The other had a soul aboard, 

With activities to court 
New oceans, e'en when storms outpoured — 

Do we know as yet its port? 



17 



an (Epic of ^eatjen 



SONG OF THE UPLANDS. 

O BETTER a glimpse of a star 
That may never be reached but be hoped 
for; 
O better a grand life afar, 

That at least in the mind can be groped for, 
Than to have all the senses desire, 
And all that the passions require, 
But no more, but no more. 

O better a faith that can cope 

With the doubts of the world and can 
quicken ; 
O better a life that has hope 

To illume it, though poverty stricken, 
Than to have all that riches can hire 
Or buy, so to feast and not tire. 
But no more, but no more. 

O better a love that is blind. 

That can see in the loved one no badness ; 
O better a trust in one's kind, 

Spite of all of its folly and madness, 
Than to stand all alone mid earth's mire, 
Having food and raiment and fire, 
But no more, but no more. 



i8 



an OBpic of ^eatien 



OUTSIDE THE NARROWS. 

T GAZE towards the far-off sea, 
-^ Nearly unknown it is to me ; 
Ships ride at anchor in its tide 
Or swiftly o'er its waters glide ; 
Some are so far they lose all form, 
Or look like snowflakes in a storm; 
While others rise so clear and near, 
They almost seem already here 
In port secure from furious gales. 
With sunshine on their folded sails. 



Oh ships, upon the further sea, 
Have you no news to give to me? 
Have you not seen from your lookout — 
Have you not hailed with w^elcome shout — 
Them that I knew in other days, 
That went beyond my mortal gaze? 
Oh, are they safely sailing now, 
With steadfast course and sturdy prow? 
Or meet they storms by night and day 
Mid rock-bound straits, far, far away? 

Some, it is true, seem near to me, 

Almost as on this earthly sea; 

Bright forms serene in pure array. 

That could not wholly pass away; 

While some, like shadows, float through haze 

More dimly than in other days. 

19 



an ©pic of ^eaijen 

God shield all those, whoe'er they be, 
That move upon that further sea ; 
And keep them from the evil blast, 
And bring them unto peace at last! 



II 



TWO WEEKS IN THE WOODS. 

TWO weeks in the woods, with nature's 
smile 
About to gladden us all the while. 
Away from papers we have to read, 
Away from railways we use in our need ; 
Away from the business that keeps us yet 
To grindstone of routine we would forget. 
Away from the work which is not all fun, 
Away from trials from which vv^e would run ; 
From books we must read, from lines we must 

write, 
From chairs we must use, from wrongs we 

would right, 
To the grand old woods a while we would steal. 
Remembering little, and let the wounds heal. 

Two weeks in the woods where to get the leaven 
That may raise our thinking somewhat toward 

heaven. 
Away from people we usually meet. 
The haste and the bustle of teeming street. 
The birds sing but simple songs, it is true, 

20 



an (Bpit of l^eaijen 

Through the branches, o'er head, the sky's but 

blue. 
But the lazy hours give nature a chance 
To get in her work just while the leaves dance. 
How wholesome and cheerful the life goes on 
Near the birch, the cedar and oak so strong; 
While distant we hear the innocent play 
Of the Riley children over the way. 



THE BOSTON FAMINE, ANNO DOMINI 

IT is not known unto this day 
Why Boston fasted ; but a ray 
Of knowledge comes to us betimes 
In an old chronicle of rhymes. 
There it is stated that "a field 
Crop failed." The annual yield, 
The lack of which filled Boston air 
With the sad music of despair, 
The legend fails to specify. 
And so to guess it we must try. 

Of corn and wheat there was a store. 
And cod and halibut were off shore; 
Of deer and bear meat could be found 
A plenty on the Common ground. 
Potatoes, peas, and cabbage grew 
Abundantly, and parsnips, too. 

21 



an (Epic of l^eaDen 

Alas, that on that hungry town 

Gaunt famine should come stalking down! 

The young and old in health declined. 

It seemed that cruel Fate designed 

To have this wholesome people die! 

'Tis hard, to-day, to tell just why. 

The merchants sent to far and near 

For succor, and it would appear 

That succor came, but wild storms tossed 

The ship ashore, and it was lost. 

A second vessel failed to reach 

The harbor ; sunk off Salisbury beach. 

The famine spread at a frightful pace; 

It looked as if the robust race 

Of Boston town would fade away. 

And that her streets would grow green hay. 

Things got unto such fearful passes 

The women took to wearing glasses ; 

As if by merely shieldinc: sip-ht 

They might control the appetite. 

Much that in Boston ncnv we see 

Is doubtless pure heredity. 

The children in the district school 
Escaped unwhipped, for the ferrule. 
Within the master's weakened hand, 
Was harmless as a fairy wand. 
The deacons of the church could not 
Collect the pence, and tithes forgot. 
(Don't contradict! I know what I 
Am writing; history won't lie.) 

22 



an (Bpit of ^eatien 

*Twas hard to tell how it would end 
Did not the winds and tides befriend. 
A loaded sloop, with beans and pork, 
Got safely in from far New York. 
The bells were rung all up and down, 
And famine ended in that town. 



ABOVE CAUSALITY. 

WHERE ride the inner guides to-night? 
A snowflake fell upon my hand, 
Soft as a spirit's touch, and white, 

Brought back from the interior land 
Unto a mother's sight. 

I heard some strains of music when 

The moon sank o'er the wood, 
And if they never come again 

Their meaning well I understood : 
The singers once were men. 

Wouldst follow up the stair of beams — 
Good stars have dropped it for our kind — 

To mount above the land of dreams. 
Where reason permeates the mind. 

Where all exists and nothing seems? 

Ah ! pity for the soul of him 

Who never hears the saintly song, 

23 



an OBpic of J^cauen 

Nor sees the beings on the rim 

Of the great zone, where all belong- 
When life has reached the cherubim. 



m 



ON THE BRONX. 

HOW gayly, on this day of June, 
The Bronx flows, bowered in green, 
With trees and vines and birds in tune — 

A fresh and varied scene ! 
And in a shady nook there shakes 

A boat in trim attire ; 
Three maidens are within ; it makes 
A picture to admire. 

How charming are they all ! lithe forms, 

Arrayed in dainty dresses ; 
Tranquil of mind, no selfish storms 

Could dwell beneath those tresses ; 
And they are gathering sprays of flowers 

From drooping branches, laden 
With perfumed blooms, to cheer the hours, 

For youth is with each maiden. 

One with an oar (so archly faced) 
The boat to bank keeps press'd in ; 

Another, with fine features graced. 
On damask cushion's resting, 

24 



an (Bpit of ptaun 

Receiving" boughs from one who'd wake 

Dead hearts to life — a vision 
That could delight the poet Drake, 

Who thought this stream Elysian. 

O Bronx ! meandering toward the sea, 

Through shadow and through lightness, 
Never before thou'st seemed to me 

So full of life and brightness 
As at this time, 'mid birds and boat, 

With maidens gathering flowers ; 
Like elves of fairyland afloat, 

They bless the passing hours. 



TAPESTRIES. 

HERE in the room where oft I sit, 
And where I weave my webs, or knit 
The thoughts that come into the mind, 
When the imagination's kind. 
At times I'm startled at the way 
Surroundings with one's thoughts have play, 
Even the tapestry on the wall, 
That days we hardly note at all, 
Shows to one's moods a difference — 
A something almost kin to sense — 
Reflecting, like a looking-glass, 
Much that within the mind may pass. 

25 



an (Bpit of ^eatJen 

When the world seems to be my friend, 
And nothing happens to ofifend, 
The tapestry looks of pattern prim, 
As if 'twould never show a whim; 
Of placid outline, debonair, 
To breed contentment anywhere. 
But let, instead, things go awry, 
Which ever to avoid I try, 
Fiends from therein look out at me, 
And hold unnatural jollity, 
Enlarging parts that hardly hint 
Of form and face, and fleshy tint. 
Into queer shapes that broadly grin. 
And add unto what's ill within. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 

STEALING the fire from off Jove's 
throne, 
To help his kin, he here is shown, 
Bound in the chains he cheerily 
Endures, deprived of liberty. 

They whom he stole it for ne'er come 
To visit him in martyrdom, 
Where, with vulture — mental stress — 
He ponders on man's happiness. 

He pity hath; he knows his kind 
May not forever be so blind ; 

26 



an dBpic of l^eatien 

And, should his story fade away, 
His fire will burn and live for aye. 

The spark thou hast, O poet. Wait; 
Appreciation may come late : 
And heedless though the world pass by, 
No living thought will ever die. 

Alike in crowds or solitude, 
Be evermore thy strength renewed; 
Bear with the cheer m.ind will afford 
The light which is its own reward. 



II II II 



THE LEGEND OF LOVE. 

THE present age has legends, too, 
And rich as long ago, 
With skies as full of light and blue, 

And human hearts aglow 
With love, as when Boccaccio wrote 

Those quaint immortal scenes, 
Where through his changing fancies float 
A bevy of fair queens. 

I see the walls of memory's dome 

With pictures covered o'er ; 
I see thereon a mass of foam, 

A wreck, and rock-bound shore. 

2.7 



an OBpic of l^caben 

The past, once fair, now dim and pale. 
Looks shuddering in my face ; 

The glorious goals, once in my hail, 
Now fly from my embrace. 

I see the duties that I gave 

Unto the winds, flash by ; 
I see them mount on pleasure's wave, 

And move a-lee and die. 
The burdens that I cast away 

Come back with greater weight; 
I watch, but see no morning gray 

Dawn o'er the hills of fate. 

But comfort greets me even there. 

And one on whom I gaze 
Is lovely as the sylphs of air 

That tread the twilight haze; 
It is my gracious first, first love. 

Her whom I loved in youth. 
When on the tree of life above 

Still bloomed the flowers of truth. 

What rapture laughed about my heart 

When first I saw that girl ; 
With what a thrilling, throbbing start. 

My brain was in a whirl ! 
The life of those sweet moments pen 

Could ne'er express in rhyme ; 
The thoughts of love, that ruled me then. 

No fairv bells could chime! 



2R 



an (Epic of i^eatoen 



THE MAN IN THE MOON. 

WHEN the silvery orb of the night is near 
full, 
You may see on its face, late or soon, 
That effigy vague known to children and scalds 
As the Man in the Moon. 

This man in the moon sits aloft in a tree, 
And one of his functions up there 

Is to wait on the mythical Queen of the Night, 
A woman that's fair. 

This woman's a goddess with many a name, 

But Cynthia's the one I admire ; 
She reigns through the hours after the sun 

Has put out his fire. 

The man in the moon watches sharp to be sure 
When the shepherd, her lover's, asleep, 

Endymion by name, who pastures his flock 
Where Latmos is steep. 

Fair Cynthia gently comes down when he sleeps 

To kiss him most lovingly there; 
And who wouldn't wish such a shepherd to be. 

To be kissed by the fair? 

Yet they who are wiser than old-time romance, 
Dare tell us the man and the tree, 

29 



m OByfc of IJ)eat)en 

When viewed through the telescope vanish from 
sight, 
And are deaa as can be. 



But Science, avaunt ! in the man and the tree, 
And Cynthia, loving and bright, 

We firmly believe, though not ours is her kiss 
In the moonshine to-night! 



P 



THE FIRST BUTTERFLY. 

BRIGHT flutterer, with golden name, 
Freckled from gentle dun to flame. 
How hast thou dared to venture out 
Ere the buds begin to sprout? 

When underneath the sheltering bower, 
Arbutus hath not shown her flower, 
Creeping from the modest moss, 
With her brilliant leaves of gloss : 

When as yet within the brook, 
Leaves lie pressed as in a book, 
Held within the Ice King's arms 
Clasped about their frozen charms ; 

Why wert thou not wise to wait 
Till King Frost should abdicate? 
Till the bluebirds pipe in tune, 

30 



an (Cpic of J^eatien 

Till the May looks on toward June, 

Till the dandelion's yellow 

Lends the lawn a radiance mellow ? 

These few hours of sunshine warm 
May prelude a fatal storm, 
Bringing frost or bringing snow ; 
Where, then, frail one, wilt thou go? 
Robin's forty times as strong, 
Yet we do not hear his song. 



THE WOMAN IN CAMP— 1854. 

THE sight of a woman was rare in those 
days ; 
So Deep Canon Camp was set in a blaze 
When the rumor was started, and sent by each 

door — 
A woman had got there the evening before. 

The excitement spread wide, away on the breeze 
Rose racket and cheers, to where the red trees 
Shadowed the gulches, for the thoughts of each 

man 
Were intent on the woman, not on pick, nor on 

pan. 

Ah, never a miner within all the camp 
But out toward the cabin which held her would 
tramp ; 

31 • 



an (Bpit of !^eat)en 

Eager the gathering, they envied, ah yes, 
The fellow who caught but a glimpse of her 
dress. 

The husband, nonchalant, came to the crowd. 
And as he appeared Jim Blonde spoke aloud : 
"Fetch her out here, Lord bless her, she's a 

surprise ; 
We hunger to see her ; it's good for weak eyes." 

"My wife she is sick, and I, too, feel bad, 
Been robbed by the Indians, lost all that we 

had." 
But Jim Blonde, the speaker, said in reply, 
"Bring out the woman, we won't let her die." 

She came to the front, her face in a smile 

That went to the heart of each miner mean- 
while ; 

And welcomes were given, some rough, and all 
strong. 

Mid waving of hats, and cheers loud and long. 

Three thousand, in gold, was raised there and 

then 
Given, with pleasure, by rough-bearded men ; 
Well, the sun will melt ice, and woman can 

make 
The heart of a Midas to melt for her sake. 



32 



an (Epic of l^eatiett 



SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. 

NE'ER tell us that all the endeavor 
We make shall bring fruitage never; 
That there's no such place as heaven, 
That sinners cannot be forgiven, 
That sin, like the wound on the finger, 
May heal, but the scar will yet linger, 
Nor vanish through years or tears. 

The answer speaks never to doubt us, 
Endeavor reaps harvests about us ; 
While happiness comes to the masses, 
And fire may restore wilted grasses. 
When wrong to the stubble-field's righted, 
It blooms as it ne'er had been blighted, 
A meadow of fragrance for years. 

m ^.f m 



AN INCIDENT IN THE SERVIAN ARMY. 

HOW the General's heart-blood leaped and 
run 
As a letter from home brought the news 
That his wife was well and his new-born son ; 

All his home in his mind he reviews, 
And a gleam of a tear comes to his eyes, 

A gleam more of pleasure than pain ; 
His wife and his babes are as Paradise ; 
He'd deem himself there if home again. 

.3.3 



an (Epic of l^eatjen 

A soldier now, a prisoner bound, 

Before him sullenly is brought ; 
Minus two fingers has been found : 

Done that he'd be discharged, 'twas thought. 
Denied, however, that the deed 

Was by himself or a coward's brand; 
A comrade helped him in his need ; 

But he'd not name him by command. 

"Art not ashamed," the General asked, 

"Thus dastardly to hurt thy hand. 
Our army in its work sore tasked, 

The Turks upon our Fatherland?" 
"Dear General, pardon," he replied, 

"I've fought the Turks, ne'er shirked before, 
And bravely charged where thousands died, 

But I'd see wife and babes once more." 

"Indeed," scornfully returned the chief, 

"Thy leave of absence I'll make long; 
So say thy prayers, and make them brief. 

Prepare to die for this great wrong." 
A soldier guard was here drawn out 

Before the prisoner, under ban. 
Who crossed himself, stood grave and stout, 

For not a coward was this man. 

Forgetting something he went o'er 
And placed within the General's hand 

Some money pieces, three or four ; 
He said, "My all — I own no land, 

34 



an (Epic of i^eatoen 

Let them be given to my wife 

When of my wretched death she hears/' 
"Go," said the General, "take thy life 

To her," his eyes brimmed round with tears. 



II II II 
THE ROBIN'S ANTHEM. 

IN the lowest limb of a tall oak tree 
Two robins have biiilded their simple nest. 
Some straw and some mud, and some twigs we 
see — 
In it is the hurry of life expressed? 

It doth answer its purpose, as a brood 
Of hungry youngsters are living there. 

Their bills are wide open, eager for food, 
That lazy progenitors might despair. 

In the later summer you'll hear their song. 

Their mellow anthem, melodious and choice — ' 
When their young, now matured, the sounds 
prolong — 

All the orchard's alive as they rejoice. 

When the sun hath rested over the hill 
A concert they give ; each tries to excel 

The other, and with tongue, throat, breast and 
bill, 
Sing "Glory ! glory !" and they do it well. 

35 



an OBpic of l^eaben 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

THE sun has vanished in the west, 
Leaving scorched plains and heights at 
rest, 
While cooling breezes earth invest. 

The twilight fades above the hill, 
Where we to-day have fought our fill, 
And where the enemy is still. 

Fair Cynthia begins to throw. 
From the soft crescent of her bow, 
Her showers of silvery shafts below. 

While hills and valleys, meadows, streams, 
Lie beautiful bene^ith her beams. 
Like pictures in a painter's dreams. 

And hark ! there comes upon the ear 
The whippoorwill's low note, so near. 
So sadly sweet and coldly drear. 

It throws a gloom upon the heart 
More than could any song of art, 
Giving the soul an inward start. 

Ah, sad bird ! mournest thou what is fled — 
Something to which thy heart was wed? 
Or is it for the battle's dead ? 

36 



an (Epic of ^}tmtn 

If for these dead, oh, sing away 

Till morning comes, with streaks of gray 

Upon his chariot's ruddy ray, 

For they with heroes now belong, 
And slain for right or slain for wrong, 
Are worthy of the sweetest song. 

Ah! must thy music cease so soon? 

Faint and more faint thy low notes swoon^ 

Slow dying with the dying moon. 

Perhaps upon life's checkered shore. 
Where thought at least can upward soar. 
Thy mournful voice we hear no more. 

And yet methinks I hear thee still, 
Lingering about yon distant hill — 
'Tis fancy, not the whippoorwill ! 



II II II 

CARDINAL MANNING'S PALTRY 
PURSE. 

THIS august personage of ripened age, 
Through whose good hands vast fortunes 
passed for years, 
Had fed the poor so bountifully well. 
Had wiped the tears from off so many eyes. 
That can we marvel at him, almost bare, 

37 



3n Cpit tf l^uHtu 



Or 

(A 



Q Q Q 
RCA\nSG ZV^'.Wr- WOOD: 



R 



OAMIXGer V 1= m 

mood. 



A oystal srrj^ 



an Cpic of t)ta\}tn 

Meandering off in discipline, 
While sun rifts o'er it beamed. 

And so a thought in some careless breast. 

Secret almost and sure, 
Is found when God's rays on it rest, 

A crystal rivulet pure. 



pee 

THE TWO BLOSSOMS. 

TWO blossoms grew upon one tree, 
And both of them were dear to me. 

I watched them through their budding time. 
And through their beauteous early prime. 

A torrid tempest came one day, 
And deadly ruin marked its way. 

Alas ! it struck the weaker one. 

And soon its bloom and life were gone. 

Under the burning breath it fell. 
''Mid tears of those who loved it well. 

The other still stands brave and strong. 

At mom, at noon, at vesper song. 

39 



9n (Bpit of ©eatjen 

To It the fatal fever bane 
Was only nutriment and gain. 

It grows so hale, so sweet, so fair, 
Amid God's all-embracing air, 

Its life at each and every stage 
Adding more beauty to the age. 

Oh, soul of man ! go search and see 
If thou canst question Diety. 

I bring two blossoms to that shrine, 
Two of the dearest ones of mine. 

O Father Mind ! can we not clasp 
Thy answer in our mental grasp? 

When both have done v/ith this blue dome 
And entered to Thy higher home, 

Shalt Thou not love the weaker flower 
As much as that which lived its hour? 

Shalt Thou not make the weak one grc 
And gain all that is missed below ; 

While through the epochs of all time 
We hail Thy equal love sublime? 



40 



an (JBpic of J^eatoen 



AT THE GATE. 

ALONE, and by the garden gate she stands, 
Watching the tender twihght as it lends 
To our good earth a dreamy atmosphere, 
That in these cahnly sweet September days 
Enters the soul like echoes of old hymns, 
Which we have heard in twilights of the past, 
Giving contentment with this world of ours. 

Her forehead fair is fanned by gentle gales; 
Her yellow hair is waving in their waves ; 
And her fair person, in the mellow air, 
Looks like a denizen of Paradise 
Just dropped to earth to see it go asleep, 
With all its millions, in the armis of Night. 

She has no lover yet, but in her mind 
There has grown up a vague, uncertain dream 
Of what perchance her other part may be ; 
And, like a lonely bird in early spring, 
Her gentle breast is fluttering for its mate. 

So in her musing, at this twilight hour. 
While star by star comes out into the night, 
And planets seem not a day's journey off. 
She's wishing that the world may grant to her 
Some one to fill the niche within her heart, 
That has been vacant, but not known before- 
Some sweet and ardent nature that will love 
Her for herself through all the coming years. 

41 



an (Epic of ^eauen 

THE THREE KINGS. 

THERE dwelleth three Kings in this world, 
and their thrones 
Are held well in place by their people's desire, 
Who need them, and of them do seldom e'en 

tire, 
But unto their honor peal bell and burn fire, 
And unto their glory pile monument stones. 

One King lives ensconced on the valley's best 
site. 
His fields without labor with great riches 

teem, 
And pleasure within his frail court reigns su- 
preme. 
His subjects think Hfe but a sensuous dream, 
And few of them know of the wrong and the 
right. 

Another King lives by the hill top, and he 

Has mansions superb, that his subjects have 

built; 
Much blood have they bravely in giant wars 

spilt. 
They learning encourage, and have sense of 
guilt- 
Make earth gayly blossom, take life from the 
sea. 

The King of the Mountain lives close to its top, 
His subjects in temples find rapture and rest; 

42 



an (Epic of l^eatoen 

And often they reason on ways which are best 
To win from the Hill King a now and then 
guest ; 
But stony's their soil, and it yields a poor crop. 

The King of the Valley has subjects who tire 
Of surroundings that cease to please them, 

and far 
They wander till reaching the Hill, where 

they are 
Brought into the palace upon the King's car — 
For part of their journey is through woods of 
fire. 



The life in the Valley's replenished from earth ; 
The King of his vineyards thinks well of and 

boasts, 
And his women and wines he merrily toasts. 
The King of the Hill, from the valley out- 
posts, 
Gets men who've grown tired of the land of 
their birth. 



Some subjects the King of the Hill, too, has lost, 
Who weary of living 'mid war, feast and gold, 
Have wandered far up where the Mountain 

stands cold 
In purity (nevei to be bought or sold). 
Though their feet sorely bled as rough fields 
were crossed. 

43 



an (Epic of J^eatjen 

The King of the IMoiintain has subjects who go 
From his temples so vast, where steps to the 

sky 
Are winding away to the bright belts on high ; 
And there reigneth a Prince whose people 
ne'er die, 
Though all served a time 'neath the three Kings 



below. 



II II 



THE VETERAN TO HIS CANTEEN. 

I BRING you out, my old canteen, 
Many long years have passed between 
The time I saw you last, old friend. 
I love to think that at my end 
You may be present, generous one, 
That gave until 3^our all was gone. 
And filled again your good quart pouch 
For march, for battle, for the couch. 
Of all the friends Fve known or seen, 
None was your better, old canteen. 

Dost recollect, when we held the bridge, 
When Hayniman crept o'er the ridge, 
Crushed by a sword blow in the head? 
How kind you were, for when he said 
That he was thirsty, all you had 
You gave in welcome, and were glad 

44 



an OBpic of ^eauen 

That you could ease his thirst. We sighed 
At his misfortune. Well, he died. 
Much of the war's grief have we seeii^ 
You and myself, my old canteen. 

I well know when I saw you first; 
I had not then been much athirst; 
You were respectable looking then. 
I know I was much younger when 
I grasped you in my hand, and slung 
You o'er my shoulder ; we were young. 
Moth eaten now's your dusty coat, 
And partly rusty is your throat ; 
But no ne\v one shall come between 
Our old-time love, my good canteen. 

You know the men who kissed your lips, 
Some died in battle ; some in ships 
Have ventured far from port ; and some 
Still wear the uniform, hear the drum. 
Some turned from the good drink you gave- 
One fills I know a drunkard's grave. 
Some in the fight for daily bread 
Are quite successful ; some are dead. 
Few better men were ever seen 
Than shared your love, my old canteen. 



45 



an (Cpic of ^eatien 



THE FALL OF TANTALUS. 

A KING of the past was Tantalus ; 
The gods who held court on Olympus 
Invited him once to their tables 
To dwell in their glory and sunshine. 

He thought that he now was their equal ; 
And, fired by brimming tankards of nectar, 
His mind was disturbed and unbalanced — 
Far better he never had lifted. 

He worshipped his children and loved them; 
But mightier far his great passion, 
His desire for the greatest gods' favor — 
A child, his beloved, he slaughtered. 

The furies were gathered, and drove him 
Down deep in the hells for his rashness, 
To stay till the dead shall be quickened, 
To suffer in hunger and torment. 

And the gods still dwell on Olympus ; 
They need not man's foolish performance. 
But he who seeks truth and acts justly, 
Mav freely nartake at their tables. 



46 



9n (Epic of ^catsen 

A WAIL FOR WALT WHITMAN. 

GONE over the border land to the haven of 
rest, tired voyager ! 
Old mother earth is gracious, and she received 

thee with open arms. 
She knows her children at sight, and loves and 

glorifies them, 
And in her embrace she took thee to keep at her 
heart forever. 

Who would not be such a poet, to be loved by 
such a mother? 

Who would not be such a son, to feel such a 
mother's attractions? 

Thou wert narrow as sin, yet broad as the uni- 
verse's pulse beats. 

To sing that grime and shine, even as flower 
and gem were perfection. 

A passionate heart hadst thou, with love for 
thyself and thy kindred, 

Who were of the high and low, no special exclu- 
sion for any ; 

And if there were few tears shed on thy grave, 
in the Jersey clearing, 

It may not be because worthier ones are lying 
unwept and forgotten. 

Another's not left with us now to show the full 
glory of freedom; 

47 



an (Bpit of IDeatien 

The flight from the classic and prim to the 
freshness and grasses of nature ; 

The might of the ocean, the factories exalting 
and vengeful, 

The great spirit of cities, and the audacity even 
of prairies ! 



^# 



THE POE COTTAGE, FORDHAM, N. Y. 

SO here is where the poet once did dwell? 
And we admire the house because he slept, 
Lived, loved and suffered in it ; where so well 
For years he ably worked ; ah, here he kept 
This poor unfortunate at his work up hill; 

Impracticable, with the poet soul 
Supreme and earnest, gathering to his will 
The magic images he would control. 

This humble cottage him a shelter gave ; 

Roses of Sharon like these met his glance; 
Sprays of these trees he saw in moonlight wave ; 

This lawn and shrubbery aided him in ro- 
mance. 
Here did this alchemist of beauty live, 

And turn earth's usual clays unto pure gold; 
And unto rhymes such brilliancy did give, 

Thev're so immortal, they shall ne'er seem 
^old. 

48 



an (Epic of r^caben 

Where Whittier lived, in honor now is held ; 

The home of Longfellow is sanctified. 
Each maker of true poetry's a weld 

Uniting men in brotherhood far and wide. 
So, cottage, feel thou not unconscious proud ; 

Genius has lived and struggled 'neath thy 
roof: 
Though thou'rt not yet a magnet to the crowd, 
That thou wilt be some time it needs no proof. 

Could Edgar Poe once more return to earth. 

Surprised would he be at his glowing fame ; 
Few giant minds, foreign or native birth, 

Have in fame's temples now a mightier name. 
Long may his cottage home be kept intact 

Wherein his labors did the world enrich; 
Discoverer of a weirdness to attract, 

Apostle of a beauty to bewitch. 



THE UNITY OF MAN. 

MAN cannot raise alone, 
More than can float a stone; 
The environments of life 
Bring him peace or bring him strife. 
Though he strive with great desire, 
In his burning heart of fire, 
With his mind in wild delight, 
In the selfishness of might, 

49 



an OBpic of l^eatien 

To arise above his kin, 
And to shun them in their sin, 
With diseases of the town 
That he would forever frown — 
Ah ! the wavelets of the air 
Will convey them even there, 
Where his palace lifts its head, 
Where he rests on downy bed — 
Ah ! the passions of his brain 
May there m.ake his labor vain; 
Or the outside world of thieves 
May conceal beneath his eaves. 
And when nio^ht is o'er the earth 
May disturb him in his mirth; 
And his talent and his gold 
May not save him in his fold, 
Nor secure his lifelong- lease, 
Nor impart to him much peace; 
For he'll find the low must rise 
To the height of his own skies 
Ere his heaven is secure — 
Ere he ceases to endure ; 
For throughout all nature's plan 
Is the Unity of Man ! 



AFTER THE MASQUERADE. 

A YOUTH in London at a masquerade 
All dressed up as a prince, his part 
well played, 

50 



an (Epic of U)eatjen 

Greatly enjoyed the dance 
With a princess of France, 
A witch from the bizarre times 
Of castles and romance rhymes. 

So overjoyed was he 
At the rainbowed royalty 
Which his dress bestowed 
In its shimmering load, 
His mind went astray, 
In some wayward way. 
And he really believed 

He was Wales himself, 

With the power and pelf; 
He was so deceived. 

Next morn, ere the hour of nine by the clock, 
At the palace door he tried to knock, 

Arrayed for the pageantry. 

And all feathered and free. 

Claiming entrance there 

As the rightful heir 

Born the crown to wear. 

Poor head ! turned strange through the power 
And the charm of a gala hour; 
Arrested, put past lock and key ! 
All for his tinselled pedigree. 

Let us have pity for this son of earth ! 
Shall we say, alas, for his simple birth ? 
Ay, the birth of one is the birth of all ! 

51 



an OBpic of ^eatien 

The Saviour was born in an humble stall, 
And what czar or prince or chief is he 
Who can claim a nobler pedigree? 



II II p 



ON THE FRONT PLATFORM. 

IT rained, and when I got aboard 
That car, the lowering weather 
Made every one feel dull and cross. 

We were alone together, 
The driver and myself ; I passed 

My nickel through the door ; his throat 
Was in a muffler, and he looked 
Betwixt a southwold and a shote. 

He smiled good-naturedly, then took 

From out his ample waterproof 
An orange ; 'twas a splendid sphere — 

He held it from his mouth aloof — 
"My teeth are watering all day long 

To eat this juicy fruit," he said; 
"I got it on my early trip — 

On such food are the favored fed." 

"Why not indulge and eat ?" I said ; 

"This self-denial's hardly right." 
"Nay," said he; "you should see my boy; 

He is, indeed, a comely sight. 

52 



an (ffipic of i^eaijen 

Of two years old he lacks a month. 

I've a swing off, an hour, at seven; 
I eat my supper at my home, 

And there I get a slice of heaven. 

"When I get home, though somewhat tired, 

I try to be myself a while. 
And when I toss this to my boy, 

You'll see that merry youngster smile. 
I'll think no more of the freezing weather, 

The lagging hours, the little pay, 
The comforts of the millionaires — 

"You're getting off — well, friend, good dayT 



II II II 
GENIUS. 

I ASKED three men I met one day. 
What genius was? — their hairs were gray 
And much experience made them sage, 
And they were bright lights of the age. 
One said it was a "food from Heaven, 
That came to some with extra leaven.'* 
Another said 'twas "work, and will 
To do and dare, and life fulfill." 
The last one shook his hoary head — 
"Genius is death" — 'twas all he said. 

Well, here we have three thoughts forsooth; 
So tell me man, or hopeful youth, 

53 



an (Epic of l^eaDen 

Which of these three hath spoke the truth ? 
Or, is each one hke to a stream 
That images each Hving scene — 
Thro' which its moving in a dream — 
Giving but to the voyager, 
Be he poet or philosopher, 
Whatever come before the eye — 
Whate'er he sees in passing by. 

Is genius then so very fine 
Not to be measured by a Hne ? 
A something secret to mankind — 
Outside the standard of the mind? 
Beyond the compass, well-known rule — 
Almost synonymous with fool — 
Projecting thought, ideal, sublime 
To live throughout the coming time ; 
From Homer, with the Trojan War, 
That lives tho' kings have gone; 
To Clarke that put "Night's mantle on, 
And pinn'd it with a star." 



THE POET. 

FEW can know well the mind of him who 
sees 
The unwritten Scripture in the works of God ; 
Whose sight can reach far out into void space 
And see the secrets hidden in the stars, 

54 



an €pic of beaten 

And read the records of the human heart, 
Beating the same beat through a milhon years. 

He, the true poet, is a mystery 

Unto himself as to the common crowd, 

He lives his life not in the realm of sense, 

But in the realm of soul ; he gives his hours 

Freely to work that will in time uplift 

Out of the sloughs of doubt the growing man. 

Unto the crowd he seems to dwell alone; 

But who would deem him lonesome when he 

hath 
Bright forms around him, coming ever, going — 
Heroes and sages, women divinely fair — 
All those called by his brain forth from the 

depths. 
The saints and saviors, and the kings and 

queens ? 

All houseless may he seem unto the crowd; 
And yet within his mind a palace stands. 
Filled with the richest furniture and gems, 
And marbles pure from unknown fairy lands, 
And carpets like fair lawns in May or June, 
And ceilings with the frescoes of the skies. 

The crowd may deem him lacking harp and 

reed; 
And yet the music of the universe 
He hears, and voices filled with melody 
From far-oiT planets come to cheer his soul, 

55 



an dEpic of IJ)eaDen 

And symphonies borne to him, on the wind, 
From islands by whose shores the mermaids 
sing. 

Unto the crowd, he seldom travels far ; 

And yet all nature comes before his eyes. 

He sees the battle in the distant field ; 

He sees the mighty storm, where ships go 

down; 
He sees the dreary mountains of the moon ; 
He sees the spread of knowledge through the 

world. 

He hath nor God nor heaven, unto the crowd, 
And yet his thoughts flow upward straight to 

Him, 
The Mind that rules the system of the spheres, 
That works eternally but for the best ; 
And his soul holds communion with the lost 
Who dwell somewhere beyond the mortal stars. 



NOT UNKNOWN UNTO THEMSELVES. 

WHERE'ER they be, rich or hewers of wood 
Bound to a wheel for aspiring toward 

Thirsting for things that fade ever away, 
Building up hopes to come down every day; 

56 



an OBpic of ^tmm 

Be they well or ill, let them laugh or groan, 
The gods to themselves are never unknovv^n. 

If they're seated with Jove to eat and sup, 
Or drink the lees from the tyrant's cup ; 
If they dream Elysium's peaceful dream, 
Or are shut in dungeons without a gleam, 
They still have pleasures, however alone ; 
The gods to themselves are never unknown. 

The wind may whistle, the storm may come on. 
And the sun, the moon, and the stars be gone ; 
The mind can survive, it has its own shore, 
O'er which the ocean of death cannot roar. 
Ye cannot deprive it of what's its own ; 
The gods to themselves are never unknown. 



A PILLOW OF PINE. 

I REST on a pillow of pine, brought home 
from the summer mountains ; 

The balm of its needles is soothing, and grate- 
ful I feel to the hands, 

The tender and thoughtful hands of the friends 
that gathering remembered me. 

And yet the aroma it yields takes me further 
than summer mountains, 

Takes me down to the forests of pine in Vir- 
ginia and North CaroHna. 

57 



an (Epic of l^eatien 

Again I ride a horse and sleep in the woods and 
by roadways ; 

Again I am with companions and implements of 
warfare ; 

I hear the drum and the fife, and the bugle's 
call to action ; 

The batteries belch their fire, and the squadrons 
charge like demons, 

And from rude-made breastworks come showers 
of lead like hailstones. 

While the flag goes up or down as success 
crowns our endeavors. 

The wounded lie in the forest, but a fire is eat- 
ing its way there ; 

While helpless they lie till consumed in the ter- 
rible havoc. 

And men are dying with thirst in the grime of 
the conflict unending, 

While the night stops only awhile the carnage 
and belchings of cannon ; 

And I lie on a pine needle bed, under the bright 
stars of heaven. 

II II II 

THE WILD ROSE. 

npHE wild rose that by roadside grew 
-■- Made friends with dust and rain, 
Companions of the breeze and dew 
Of country field and lane. 

58 



an (Epic of J^eatjen 

Though grown in hungry earth and stone 
Some nourishment it found, 
And, modestly, it would atone 
By cheering the dull ground. 

As if to rival garden plant 
Each tint it sought to cull, 
And was well able to enchant 
When it blossomed beautiful. 



RECEIVED FROM A CHILD. 

AS others were writing our little one 
Said, "To papa she, too, would write;" 
Making an effort, and when it was done 
'Twas sent in an envelope white. 

Ah ! what pleasure it gave to receive it, 
For its circles my heart entwined; 

Though few words were therein to relieve it, 
And its paper had not been lined. 

'Twas a quaint and beautiful letter. 

Brimmed full of young effort sincere; 

Where's the father from youngster got better, 
Or one to be treasured more dear? 

For a talisman choice I will choose it, 
And when shaken by passions wild 

59 



an (Epic of lj)eatien 

For my safety I'll gladly peruse it, 
This letter received from a child. 

She informs me the folks at home love me. 
That she wishes that I were home; 

That she prays to the angels above me 
To watch over me while I roam. 

Though but part of the alphabet's in it, 
And to many it seems a scrawl — 

They could never tell where to begin it — 
Yet I can understand it all. 



II II I 



TO A BROTHER. 

13 ELIGIONS of the world accommodate 
-^^ Most every being who would walk him 

straight. 
If one's not suited where so much is shown 
He has the power to make one of his own. 

The Protestant, the Catholic, the Jew 
Are brothers in their worship ; it is true 
The forms are different, but each sincere heart 
Hath worshiped the Creator from the start. 

The kindly, blessed Father of us all 
Hath every child of earth within His call ; 

60 



an (Bpit of J^eatjen 

And while some go this, and some go that way. 
He is the judge to say the one astray. 

We worship and are sanctified thereby ; 
Get nearer to the Father while we try. 
Though finite is our grasp, our staff a reed. 
We get the manna from the heavens we need. 

Bow your head here, or bow it over there, 
The Father's love is present everywhere. 
O, brother of my heart ! bow where you will, 
E'en though we differ, you're my brother still. 



f^.- <5f^ »^^ 

"^SJP ^iir ^4^ 

SWEET REST TO HIM! 

SWEET rest to him, tender and bright. 
Last mighty Captain of our fight ! 
His country owes him boundless praise 
For faithful service all his days, 
With sword and brain true to the right. 

When treason rose in deadly might 
This gallant, fearless modern knight, 
In duty sought the battle's blaze ! 
Sweet rest to him ! 

In these last years, with hair grown white. 
To see him was a pleasing sight. 

Children were happy in his gaze ; 

Women and warriors sought his ways; 

6i 



an (Epic of ^eatien 

His gracious manners gave delight- 
Sweet rest to him ! 



THANKSGIVING DAY. 

AT the gateway of the winter now comes 
Thanksgiving tide. 
In the glory of its atmosphere, its pie and tur- 
key pride, 
And it is most becoming that its cheer should 

far and wide abound, 
E'en going to the humblest home where'er it 
may be found. 

In olden time Thanksgiving was for harvests 

poor or good, 
The corn, the pumpkin, wheat, and all that gave 

a liveHhood, 
For poor returns the Pilgrims held up their 

hearts in praise, 
Far greater should our thanks be that live in 

these glorious days. 

Then welcome be Thanksgiving with its mani- 
fold feasts and joys ; 

Under many a homestead roof now gather the 
girls and boys ; 

And though some of us fail somewhat in har- 
vests where we strive, 

62 



an ©pic of ^eaben 

We should be thankful for our hopes, and that 
we are alive. 

Then pass around the turkey, the mince and ap- 
ple pies; 

Don't slight the poor and needy if in wisdom 
you'd be wise, 

To relieve distress our people have only to be 
told, 

For Lord be thanked the human heart is yet as 
good as gold ! 



SONG— HER IRISH BLUE EYES. 

SWEET Maggie Magill, she lives on a hill, 
Her father's farm is next to mine ; 
I met her oft when I drove to the mill, 

Her hair was like gold in the bright sunshine. 
Away from her now in a foreign land, 

Where many a maiden one's constancy tries, 
I long for a touch of her small, friendly hand, 
I sigh for a glance of her Irish blue eyes. 

Sweet Maggie Magill, when coming away 
I ask her to promise my bride she will be ; 

She gives me her word ; what more could she 
say? 
That when I come back she will marry me. 

63 



an (Bpic of l^eatoen 

My heart to her keeping I fondly surrender, 
She of all lasses the treasure and prize ; 

Ah! would she were here, so gracious and ten- 
der! 
Oh for one glance of her Irish blue eyes ! 



APPLES FALL. 

)nniS evening in the country, 
A In the mild September hours. 

And we linger in the odors 

Of the autumn fields and flowers. 

The cricket and the katydid 

Have brought their song and call. 

And in the orchard gloaming 
We may hear the apples fall. 

Why do the apples fall this way? 

Who knows the reason why? 
Or why that meteor yonder 

Leaves the arches of the sky? 

But even the little sparrow's end 
Is known to the Lord of all ; 

And we meditate w^ith nature 
As we hear the apples fall. 



64 



an Cpic of ^eatien 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 

His remains were brought over from Tunis, 
at the expense of Mr. Corcoran, of Wash- 
ington, D. C, and were reinterred, with appro- 
priate services, at the beautiful Oak Hill Ceme- 
tery, June 9, 1883. 

BACK to the land that gave him birth, 
He's brought to rest forevermore, 
To mingle with his mother earth. 
Back from the far Tunisian shore. 

Here we'll his sacred dust entomb, 
Beneath his own loved flag unfurled ; 

But who could tomb his song? 'Twill bloom 
Long as mankind live in the world ! 

What sailor, 'neath the stars or sun, 
Wherever he may chance to roam. 

Or soldier, when the battle's done, 

But in his heart loves '*Home, Sweet Home?" 

The emigrants who leave the land 
That gave them and their kindred life, 

The thousands landing on our strand. 
All love the song with home so rife. 

Yet he who wrote it seldom could 
Claim that he had a home. His song 

To publishers brought fortunes good. 
While he with poverty lived long. 

65 



an ©pic of JJ)eai)en 

Now he IS back unto his own ; 

A generous man advanced the means, 
And after three decades have flown, 

His dust is 'mid famihar scenes. 

Ah ! if his gentle spirit sees 

From the immortal homes on high, 

Retaining yet his faculties, 

This does his soul much gratify. 

Poor wanderer! back to home again, 

To rest 'neath flowers and showers of June, 

Thy simple song from simple men 
And women shall not perish soon. 



EASTER. 

WHETHER as in old church romance 
On Easter morn the sun would 
dance, 
Spiritual eye can see this day 
The angel roll the stone away 
From the tomb door, and so set free 
The Christ foretold by prophecy. 
And from the body's earthly prison 
Proclaim the news that ''He has risen !" 

Yes, He hath risen ! and may, too, 
All who their selfishness subdue, 
To rich and poor, to wild and tame, 

66 



an (Bpit of i^eatien 

Obscurely housed, or known to fame, 
Alike He's brought — ah ! blissful sight — 
This immortality to light ; 
Thy neighbor love as self and God, 
And little matters it how thou'rt shod. 

Blessed Easter! for it all years long, 
Be welcomed in with joy and song! 
Rejoice ! it preaches to the earth, 
Beyond the tomb there is a birth 
Of soul triumphant — life and breath. 
That never can know aught of death! 
Rejoice ! Hosannas joyful rise 
To Christ, the pathway to the skies! 

II II II 

WHEN GEORGE GETS MARRIED. 

Wedding of George H. Rowe and Ida Belle 
Wood of Brooklyn, N. Y. 

WHEN George gets married how they will 
sigh. 
The numerous girls ; they'll not tell why 
Though they must know one only can 
Be properly married to a man ; 
And love must always make a choice — 
At least one heart can well rejoice. 

November, with her bonny airs. 
Is now about us ; month for pairs 

67 



an (Epic of ^eatjen 

To act conjointly and not lurch, 
But meet together at the church ; 
The wedding march, the service said, 
The ring put on and they are wed. 

When George is wed the lovely one 

Will have a prince to lean upon ; 

And he will have a lovely dame. 

Worthy a hero and his fame. 

The fact is in the very air 

That they're a handsome, well matched pair. 

When George gets married how the press 
Will write him up, it can't do less ; 
This scion of the fourth estate 
Has been its worker long and late. 
In pleasant and in stormy days, 
And will be sure to get its praise. 

In ruby and in amber wine 

We'll toast the pair. Ay, 'twill be fine 

To see them on their wedding day, 

Fresh as two blooms of hawthorn spray, 

Starting a journey not all mirth, 

But just the best one of the earth. 

Healthy and happy in their prime — 

The Lord be with them through all time! 

Peace and the robust one Good Cheer 

To be their guests for many a year. 



68 



an (Bpic of 5)eaben 



IDIOSYNCRASIES. 

A SOLDIER of the Cross once had a dream, 
After a battle, resting by a stream : 
He saw, upon his way, an Infidel 
With blood which flowed from wounds both 

deep and fell, 
A hand quite powerless, and a dragging limb 
That yielded but a burden sore to him, 
Trying to reach the stream to quench his thirst. 
The soldier felt like slaying him at first. 
But drops like rain now falling from the sky 
Caused him to turn a sudden glance on high; 
And in the blue — 'twas clear — he saw a face 
Bearded but lovely, with a divine grace. 
Whose lips still smiled and spoke to him: "Oh 

spare 
Thy brother ; what thou hast that let him share !" 
And strange about the soldier it may seem 
That when he woke he thought it not a dream. 



II II II 



THE WASHINGTON STATUE. 

Erected at the W^illiamsburgh Bridge Plaza 
through the generosity of ex-Congressman 
James R. Howe. 

69 



an (Cpic of !^eaben 

IN th* wondrous gallery of famous men 
Which Time, Creation's artist, hath turned 
out, 
Not one of them of greater worth we ken 
Born to vicissitudes of faith and doubt, 
Not one whose mission splendid was to rout 
King George's government for Liberty's 
To compare with Washington, who could mount 
The high hills of men's hopes, enjoy the breeze 
And view America and her destinies. 

He saw the liberal sunshine o'er the hills, 
Which promise gave to all of work and hope ; 
And he beheld the tyranny which kills, 
Become oppressive, that would slyly grope 
And strangle free thought by its narrow scope. 
Swelling the world with all of fret and care, 
That taxes, without freedom, was a rope 
Of rotten strands, too fragile to ensnare, 
Unable to hold pioneers anywhere. 

The glorious risings of those soul-tried times! 
The episode at Boston when was thrown 
The tea in harbor. Independence chimes 
And Patrick Henry's voice are northward 

blown — 
The news of Lexington has southward flown! 
Brave colonies ! in efforts hard and long, 
'Mid foes in ambush and those better known. 
Staunch bulwarks ! and advance guard, good 

and strong, 
To all republics, struggling against wrong. 

70 



an (Epic of J^eatien 

The Valley Forge of hunger and of cold, 
Of bleeding feet in snow, 'mid bleak distress, 
Shall never in our minds and hearts grow old, 
But ever claim our grateful tenderness. 
The General and his ill-clad men we bless ; 
For love of right they battled long and sore ; 
We thank them for their fortitude and stress. 
Men of great parts ! how lovingly we pore 
O'er history that your gallant deeds explore ! 

When victory came, securing well earned peace, 

The conqueror of Cornwallis bade farewell 

Unto his armies, to enjoy a lease 

Of quiet citizenship. But it fell 

To him to be selected, to excel 

As our first President ; to uphold the state.. 

A watchful, faithful, fortunate sentinel. 

In every function to be truly great, 

A knightly man, one of the kings of fate.. 

Here hath been built memorial eloquent 
To remind people of his work and fame. 
This man of men most opportunely sent 
Within God's providence to earn a name 
Second to none — all patriots to aflame. 
And while we look upon his effigy 
In lasting bronze, this man of giant frame,. 
With two-fold gratification may we see 
In its proportions fame and form agree.. 



71 



an (Epic of l^eauen 



A GOOD NIGHT TO SORREL. 

MUSING to-night on former years, 
The war unto my eyes appears 
And 'mid its memories — hopes and fears — 
My mind goes back to Sorrel. 

That faithful war steed's now no more, 
That me through dangers safely bore, 
Yea, through the raids and battles' roar; 
For dauntless was good Sorrel. 

When the war ended, his fine head 
He laid upon earth's chilly bed, 
And soon he slumbered with the dead; 
And so breath left poor Sorrel. 

Why did he so ignobly die? 
He that so oft heard bullets fly, 
While shells burst through the sulphurous sky; 
Ay, why did they spare Sorrel? 

Stout horse ! he bore me o'er the soil, 
On many a weary march of toil, 
While the hot sun made the blood boil; 
But through it all went Sorrel. 

He oft has chased guerilla bands 
O'er ditches wide and swampy lands, 
And helped to fetter traitors' hands; 
For swift was my good Sorrel. 

72 



an (Epic of J^eatjen 

He, too, has charged with flying- feet, 
And followed up the dire retreat, 
Where the rebels got so badly beat; 
Ay, you were there, brave Sorrel! 

Poor horse! you're now at peace. The strife 
Of man no more affects your life, 
That with all nobleness was rife ; 
And so good night, brave Sorrel! 



THE COMFORTER. 

THAT shadows fall upon the soul of men, 
Under monotony of suns and stars. 
Cannot gainsaid be by philosophy, 
Yet know we they are shadows — nothing real. 
Minds are not made of clay or putty, to 
Be shaped by every trifling circumstance. 
The Builder shaped each vessel for a sea 
Unknown but partly to another one. 
Nor can an accident, or incident, 
Take from each one the freight he gladly bears. 
That from the Father comes to each one born. 
The glorious ingrain heritage of all. 
The spiritual illumination, that 
From the development of the upper brain. 
Is at man's trying hour the Comforter 
That lights him onward to the realms of bliss. 

73 



an (Epic of ^eatjen 

THE ROCK ROAD. 
Watchung, New Jersey. 

HAST ever been blessed with a summer 
abode, 
A cottage or bungalow on the Rock road? 
A tired one's paradise, lovely and calm, 
With rural advantage of field and sky farm. 

The songsters of woodland and meadow com~ 

bine, 
With human sojourners, to make it divine. 
A life-giving breeze, seen and felt everywhere, 
Shakes the perfume from trees in the exquisite 

air. 

The Rock road has different levels to go; 
Some steep, and some easy, all curved to go 

slow. 
A serpentine ascent, to give exercise, 
The traveler enjoying the scene of each rise. 

The people who dwell there are earnestly great 
Lovers of nature ; it augments each estate. 
One hardly may blame them, in scenes fresh 

and gay. 
To feel they are rich as the hours pass away. 



74 



an (Bpit of l^eatoen 

THE SPARROWS. 

OUTSIDE my garret window there's a roof, 
And there the Hvely sparrows love to 
come, 
These wintry days, eager to get a crumb. 
Though feathered warm, in brown and gray, 

not proof 
Are they 'gainst hunger. From a ledge aloot 
They flurry down, alert and frolicsome; 
And then, again, they're sober-eyed and glum, 
Anxious that I should give for their behoof. 
They are abused by some, I freely own ; 

And when I gave food I have seen them flare 
Away a while, as if they had a fear 
Of unexpected harm ; but ne'er a stone ^ 
Would I throw at these gossips of the air, 
That this dull weather fills with chatty cheer. 



A 



HELICON. 

POET bound for distant Helicon, 
- To quaff the nectar of its many springs, 
A draft of which lays bare the soul of thmgs, 
O'ertook another deviously wandering on. 

Approving not such waywardness, he said :^ 
^'Straight have I come through jungle, city, 
mire, 

75 



3n dEpic of l|)eatoen 

Seldom my progress matching my desire ; 

The road seems long; how has thy journey 
sped !" 
The other answered, "1 have sought the field 
Where birds made melody, where flowers 

were fair; 
While rock, and tree, and leaflet, sun and air. 
Gave me new dreams not hitherto revealed." 
And thus each one thought his own road the 

best, 
While far away loomed Helicon in the west. 

II II II 
THE BIRD OF HOPE. 

GOING through the park I hear thy cheerful 
song, 
Sweet bird of hope, song sparrow. At thy 

leisure 
Er®^ other birds come with their treasure, 
Ere robins clear and blackbirds harsh and 

strong 
And bluebirds meek, in thickets yet do throng, 
Advance guard of the spring, thy dainty meas- 
ure, 
Though wintry winds prevail, thou singst with 

pleasure. 
The bud and leaf and flowers will come along. 
Sing, little teacher, to encourage us 
Whom the March winds are chilling to the core : 
Who see no spring nor evidence of flowers. 

76 



an (Epic of l^eauen 

Ah! could we doubtful days enliven thus, 
As thou dost on yon leafless branch so hoar, 
Our world would fuller be of happy hours 1 



A MORNING THOUGHT. 

AS when at morn, through chilly rain and 
mist, 
We look to W'here the mountain lately stood, 
Yet cannot see it in its cloud-capped hood, 

Howe'er believing 'twill be yet sun-kissed; 

So when in darkness and affliction, God, 
We cannot always see Thy loving face, 
Nor can Thy goodness in life's shadows trace ; 

But as w^e know the sunshine o'er the sod 

Will come again, restoring to our sight 

The vast and solemn mountain, tall and lone, 
Grand as Olympus, Jupiter's old throne, 

So learn we when our darkness turns to light, 
And drear foreboding changes to a smile. 
That Thou hast been about us all the while. 

II II II 
INDIAN SUMMER DAYS. 

THE fowler's shot resounds through pleas- 
ant air. 
The maples have put on their red and gold, 
The purple haze envelopes wood and wold 

77 



an dEpic of l&eatjen 

And makes the homeliest things look soft and 

fair. 
The corn stands in the shock for winter's food, 

The cows graze lazily along the stream, 

The distant mountains now much nearer seem 
Than when the summer heats did o'er them 

brood. 
The growing colt frisks gayly through the field, 

Nor thinks of toil in store for him and me ; 

A sluggish feeling calms our energy 
And makes the mind to dreamy fancies yield. 
Over the well won trophied autumn's shield 

The Indian summer spreads its tapestry. 



ON THE NILE. 

?npWAS on the Nilus, waiting for the wind 

-■- To favor sail — impatient to be gone — 
John Christian said, ''O this is most unkind! 

Let's pray the wind to change that we may 
on." 
Hassan Mohamet, of the boat, replied: 

"Let us content in that it blows aright." 
**Nay," said the other, with no wish to bide, 

**We want a difif'rent wind — this looks like 
spite." 
Hassan Mohamet said, *Tt may seem so ; 

But I have faith that God does shape the way, 

78 



an ©pic of r;)eatien 

Whether to North or South this wind may blow. 

And makes it right for somebody to-day." 
John Christian bow'd his head — he thought a 

prayer — 
And somehow dropp'd his selfish wishes there. 



THE IMPRISONED ROBIN. 

HE heard his cry this morning, and his 
wail 

Was like the sad song of the whippoorwill. 

It may be in his prison cage he still 
Hath memories of the fields ; recalls the tale — 
So sadly sweet, filling the wood and vale — 

The lonesome night bird sang at vespers, till 

He deems it is his own. His joyous thrill 
And natural pipings seem to be in jail. 
How different from his notes when, wild and 
free, 

He sang his happy greetings to his mate. 
And pleasure seemed the business of his days ! 
No night bird's acts were mimicked in his ways 

When he strode o'er the lawn in pride elate. 
Or filled the air with melody from a tree. 



79 



an (Epic of ^eauen 



ON THE HUDSON. 

THE glow of perfect day unconscious lies 
O'er Hudson's wide expanse this autumn 
tide, 
When Nature's banners, streaming far and 
wide, 
Are mirrored in its waters with the dyes 
Of Indian summer's painting — darks and 
brights — 
Enveloping the prospect, till we seem 
Wrapped in the splendors of an Orient dream. 
O River ! whose soft waves reflect all lights, 
By farm and palace where mankind may 
dwell. 
Happier than by the Shannon, Thames, or 

Rhine, 
Could I have but a cottage to call mine 

On thine enchanting banks, it would be well ; 
Where musing, from earth's tumults I'd be free 
To watch thy peaceful journey to the sea. 



A TAWNY HEAD FROM EGYPT. 

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Central Park, 
N. Y. 

THERE rude curiosity cannot e'en debase 
It rests, this marvel from the antique 
land 

80 



an (Bpit of J^eatoen 

Of pyramid and sphinx, and palm and sand, 
|(With tufts of hair, warm-bronze, within a 

case,) 
An illustration of the dominant race 

That swayed the world for centuries, and that 

planned 
Archives of art and catacombs to stand 
'Gainst all Time's efforts laboring to efface. 
These sightless sockets once with love-light 
shone ; 
This brow command has given men among. 
And with its intellect may have given tone 
To governments — ay, even touched our own; 
While Hps, that might have greeted wife and 

young. 
Are now with brain that thought, with voice 
that sung. 



O 



CONTINUITY. 

UR honored parent would be ninety now, 
Though many a lengthened year has 
passed away 
Since in death's harvest he was gathered, 
gray, 
Having had enough, no doubt, to fret his brow. 
I never deem him dead, but still endow 
Him with all faculties in vi2:orous play; 
With aspirations in their fullest sway; 

8i 



an (Epic of i^eauen 

And fruitful works that hang- upon Hfe's bough. 

Each year I add a new year to his days : 
The difference is but Uving here or there 
In that great country wdiere they never die. 

But evermore are youthful in their ways ; 
No wrinkles fret from labor or from care, 
For all soul-longings blossom in the sky. 



II II 



THE ANGELUS. 

TWO simple souls stopped by a peal of bells. 
Amid the evening shades softly de- 
scending, 
As homeward from their daily labor wending, 
They pause to pray while the sweet cadence 
swells ; 
Two souls sincere, though lacking in book 
sense. 
But knowing well the world invisible. 
Listening, they hear more than the solemn knell 
Of sounding chimes to wake their reverence ; 
So worshipping and spiritual they appear. 
Devout brain fibres of the very life 
Are stimulated in the man and wife, 
And they love God and feel the heavenly 
sphere ; 
They have no science raising mental mists 
To blind the truth divine, that God exists. 

82 



an dBpic of it)eatoen 



THE HARP OF WHITTIER. 

SOME chords, which seemed from a celestial 
lyre, 
Found long ago by a New England boy, 
Were by him made into a harp, his joy, 
On which he played in rapture tones of fire. 
Knowing the source from which had came its 
strings, 
He consecrated it to right 'gainst wrong, 
Against slavery of every sort its song ; 
The brotherhood of man it grandly rings. 

Full-grown the man forsook not the great 
task. 
And much of love of country and home life 
Are sweeter for his songs, which are so rife 

In offering wisdom in its sunniest bask. 
Now past the confines of the earth he sees 
The stars immortal o'er the cypress trees. 



A POET— TENNYSON. 

BRAIN fibred all for poesy, in this 
Slow humdrum age of science, work he 
w^ould 
Creating noble forms on which he could 
Bestow a worth immortal. Granite, gneiss 

83 



an dBpic of !S)eat3en 

And sandstone of the mind, all gave him bliss 

Inspired with soul of beauty, brotherhood ; 

Then consciously, yet modestly, he stood 
Enlarging right and joy that none need miss. 

Wrought by his glowing faculties, manifold, 
Old ruins changed to homes for singing birds ; 
Sleepers of old romance new life began ; 

The glories of the future were unrolled ; 
Fair women dead again spoke golden words, 
And songs were born to cheer the perfect man. 

II II m 

TWO WREATHS FOR GLASNEVEN. 



I 



DREAMED two wreaths I brought into 



Glasneven 

To place upon two graves, well honored 
there ; 
Graves of great hearts who did the work of 
heaven 
Striving for equal rights against despair. 
Awaking, I remembered one had fought 

To free his countrymen oppressed for creed, 
And never wearied till what he had sought 

Was gained at last, so grandly did he plead. 
The other was a stubborn patriot, yet 

The leader and the master of a band 
Of men, love-bound, fighting that they might 
get 
All freemen's risfhts for their beloved land. 



'&' 



84 



an (Bpit of J^eauen 

speed, shadowy wreaths, to deck the 

mounds where dwell 
The mortal parts of O'Connell and Parnell. 



THE WOOD THRUSH'S SONG. 

OFT have I listened to thy song, sweet bird, 
Trying to learn it so that 1 might sing 
It to myself long after in the fling 
And turmoil of the city, but a word 

Or note I learn not; thine enraptured strain, 
So filled with beauty, strength and cadences, 
Has with it so much tree, and lawn, and breeze. 

And consonance, that all my task's in vain. 
As difficult to learn it as the song 

Made by the streamlet down the mountain 

side, 
Rising and lowering in a rhythmic slide, 
Tinged by the zephyrs which the sounds pro- 
long; 
But, like to it, it lingers when away, 
Within the mind, and haunts us many a day. 

m m m 

TO THE PLANET JUPITER. 

MAGNIFICENT orb, great Jupiter ! that 
With regal splendors glow the 
evening skies. 

Paling red Mars, that soon to sink he lies 

85 



an Cpic of l^eatien 

Beyond our ken — the dark West caverns at. 
Bright one, dimming the constellations' trail, 

Whether accompanied by five moons or more, 

Whether cooled off or fiery thine outpour, 
In thy supremacy thou wilt not fail 

To be the planet sphere of majesty! 
And, certes, thou'st to be the interpreter, 
Unto the worshipful astronomer, 

To much unknown now in our solar sea ; 
While nations yet unborn shall in thee find 
An object of sublimity to the mind. 



II II p 

WARD'S SHAKSPEARE. 
Central Park, N. Y. 

HERE can we see the Poet's noble brow 
That cheers the Centuries! — a great spa- 
cious tower, 
Showing mankind, what darkly was ere now. 

The native source of his supernal power. 
The long black mystery is there cleared away ; 
We no more can marvel since this is here. 
Why his mental photographs are the sway — 

The glory of the world — without a peer ; 
Or, why he magically read the heart, 

And with clairvoyant vision saw through all 
The workings of the mind, in every part. 
Be it in king, or clown, or great, or small, — 

86 



an (Epic of !^eat)en 

Pshaw ! such a face and head on man to-day 
Could make great Hamlet but a schoolboy's 
play. 

W W ^ 
THE CATBIRD'S SONG. 

MA-YAA, ma-yaa," I hear the catbird cry- 
ing 
From out the thicket during day's warm 

hours, 
When partly resting his melodious powers, 
Near cornfields waving in the zephyr's sighing. 

But hear him in the morning hours rejoice. 
In middle summer, when his young are grow- 
ing ! 
Behold him then from yonder spruce spire 
throwing 
His melody about in marvellous voice! 
Alto, soprano, mezzo, high and low. 

How frolicsome this homely fellow's notes 
Break on the ear; and hear him when he 
quotes 
From other birds, the rascal mimics so. 
And he improves the others' trill or call, 
For if he only tries, he beats them all. 



87 



3n OEpic of J^eaijen 



THE PORTRAIT. 

HOW like a placid morning- is this face, 
So full of healthfulness and rosy light, 

The eyes filled full of tenderness, and bright 
With an expression showing inward grace. 
Yet closer look, and see that line on line 

Hath Time engraved upon this countenance 

Of trial and struggle, which may e'en enhance 
The beauty of these lovely forms divine. 
The morning landscape in the sunshine dress'd 

Once past the fearful storm which shook the 
earth. 

Looks calmly now, after its rain-washed birth, 
In all the glory of its beauty blest ; 

And, though about are many marks which tell 

Of the storm's doings, yet is it not well ? 



II II II 

CHRISTMASTIDE. 

PEACE and good will toward men! Blest 
Christmastide 
That brings to famished thousands a good 

meal; 
While even those immured in cells, that steal 
From others for a livelihood, now bide 
At tables loaded with the best of fare. 

88 



an OBpic of ^eatjen 

Children unused to luxuries and joys 

Now have abundance, are e'en bless'd with toys, 

For did not Christ take such unto His care? 
The laborer sick, his family hungry, cold, 

Is now remembered ; wood and coal, and rent, 

And flour and meal, and fowl to him are sent 
By them that know the genuine use of gold ; 

Whose eyes have seen the shepherds watch 
by night, 

Or read the Sermon on the Mount aright. 

m W W 
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

COULD I depict the marvel of thy lines 
I would be almost equal to thyself ; 
So content I must be to admire thy pelf 
Of Nature's coinage that thy skill entwines 
Through all thy sayings, prophecies and pasts. 

Thy mind can claim equality with them. 
The giant seers and poets, that like masts, 

Well rigged and sailed, are set 'twixt bow and 

stem 
On earth's great deck, inciting mankind on 
To emulate their spreading sails of thought. 
While breezes from the purer spheres are 
brought 
To swell the canvas, that the weak may con, 
The strong wax stronger, the rose grow more 

red, 
And the material man rise from the dead. 

89 



an (Bpit of ^eatien 



WASHINGTON ROCK, NEW JERSEY. 

HERE on this giant rock, backed by this 
wood. 
He viewed the hostile red coats of the foe. 
Led by Cornwallis on the plains below. 
Noting their movements, while concealed he 
stood. 

What a vast prospect was before his eyes, 
Where now fair plains and pleasant towns 

abound ! 
Yonder's the gray of Staten Island Sound, 

And here the Raritan low winding lies. 

New Brunswick's but a dozen jumps, you'd 
think, 
O'er there the towers of Brooklyn Bridge so 

tall; 
Yonder stands Liberty enlightening all ; 
And there's the gusty ridge of Navesink. 

How varied are the scenes which spread be- 
low, 

Where Washington once stood and watched 
the foe. 



90 



an (Epic of ^eatjen 



CREATION. 

A SINGING bird one day upon a spray 
Seemed happy for the pleasure in his 
heart 
The singing gave him. So let the poet im- 
part 
His song of many chords in his own way, 
Whether of cheer, or dole, of fact, or fay. 

And although sometimes singing to the mart, 
With love of approbation in his art, 
What matter if true music's in his lay? 
Songs from his inner self abroad are tossed; 
A hearing for these winged souls he be- 
speaks ; 
And whereso'er he goes, listeners he seeks, 
As otherwise their melody might be lost, 
A thinker said, in words of high sequence, 
"A poet must create an audience." 



II II II 
WARM DAYS IN DECEMBER. 

THE warmth hangs o'er the naked, bare- 
limbed woods, 
Enmantling them in garments of blue haze ; 
And even the ruts made by the springtime 
floods 
When that Apollo with his golden rays 

91 



an (Epic of l^eatien 

Sent melted snow in runlets down the hills 

And watersheds, swelling the little streams 
To treble their capacity of rills, 

Appear like ancient gold with ruddy gleams. 
Some vigorous maples yet retain their leaves, 

Proud of their mottled dress of fading sheen ; 
And the slow-running brook his way yet weaves 

By fir and myrtle, and through sods yet green. 
Some migratory birds in cosy nooks yet stray 
Where sheltered glades abound and south winds 
play. 



JOHN BROWN. 

NATURE has her own way to move man- 
kind, 
Taking for heroes righteous ones of earth. 
Clothed in the ruggedness of right from 
birth, 
Of radical proclivities which bind 

Fast to the task she teaches they must do, 
And wealth, nor ease, nor beauty ever frees 
Them from the work which warms their ener- 
gies. 
Their raiment may be rough, their food part 
rue, 
Their pilgrimage on earth be 'mid despair; 
They may be called fanatic, fool, or worse. 
And their intentions may be deemed a curse 

92 



an OBpic of i^eatoen 

To shatter much in life thought good and fair; 
Yet working for the right they miss God's 

frown, — 
The shackles of each slave were on John 

Brown. 

II II II 

STORY'S SEMIRAMIS. 

THERE in a modern city sittest thou, 
The queen that some four thousand years 
ago 
Had built the walls of Babylon ; thy fair brow 
Crowned with Assyria's jewels; a great foe, 
And conquering princess, that brought 'neath 

thy sway 
Persia and Egypt, and their mighty force, 
And north to where Caucasus stood at bay. 

And east to where the Indus found its source, 
Within the present age again thou'st won. 

The Teuton, Anglo-Saxon, Celt and Dane, 
And children of them all, a race begun, 

Acknowledge thy great powers, accept thy 
reign, 
And crowd the portals of the courtly scene 
Where, in thy wondrous beauty, thou art queen. 



93 



9n (Bpit of ^eaben 

THE MONTH OF MONTHS. 

THE air is teeming with the life of June ; 
The insects hum about the fragrant grass; 
The robin and the catbird pipe in tune, 

And the wood sparrow cheers the wild morass. 
The distant hill-tops seem to lie serene 

Within the sunshine of the glorious day, 
Like Eden's mountains lovely in the sheen 

Of Paradise's splendor far away. 
The roses' perfume from the garden wall, 

The clover's breath from the green meadow 
near, 
The bobolincoln with his flirting call, 

The pleasant atmosphere, blue, dry, and clear; 
Yes, all the living things which sing or croon 
Proclaim thee of all months the sweetest, June. 



ON THE FRONTIER. 

TWO giant minds have stamped the mental 
world, 
Instructors of our times and times to be; 
Toiling to bring mankind to harmony, 
Smoke from each study on the frontier curled. 
They searched more for finality than growth. 
Not for the footprint but the thought of God, 
They worshipped wisdom in the chastening 
rod 

94 



an (Epic of ^eatjen 

That scars transgressors ; and yet both 
Felt Beauty as she moves through cycles vast, 
And knew the hopefulness that cheers us here 
In our promotion toward the perfect sphere; 
They loved the future and esteemed the past. 
Revere their lives, O man ! for ne'er again 
Will this old world contain two lovelier men. 



EUGENE FIELDS— TERR^ FILIUS. 

WHAT sweeter epitaph can there be used 
O'er any grave, let fame be great or 
small, 
Than what is true of him, and not abused? 

"He was a friend of children, one and all." 
O friend ! who hath environed a new life, 

I never saw to know you, but a sort 
Of sympathetic fellow feeling, rife 

With human ties, hath brought us in rapport. 
A vacant place, impossible to fill, 

Owing to the quaint flavor of his brain. 
Was made when Death this Roman vase did 
spill, 
And so was lost rich wine to entertain. 
In him the child and man were reconciled, 
And in his death I pity every child. 



95 



an ©pic of l^catjen 

THE WELL BROUGHT OVER FROM 
HOLLAND. 

FRONTING a bluff beside the Tappan Zee, 
Surrounded by green sward, bubbles a 
spring- 
Wherein the traveler, or the bird on wing, 
May quench his thirst and quaff cool purity. 
Above, in Wolfert's Roost, once lived a King 
Of Romance, he whose magic pen could bring 
The Hudson Dutchman back for us to see, 
The village vroow, or New Amsterdam grandee. 
He drank of your sweet waters, humble fount, 
And made you famous ; even children tell 
The whimsical story of the imported well. 
You bubble merrily beneath Van Tassel's 
mount 
And wayfarers still seek you, for your fame, 
And for the love of Diedrich Knickerbocker's 
name. 

U W W 

SOME DIVINE STEPS. 

THE essence of all things that dwells on 
high. 
To whom the human soul oft turns for balms, 
Lets downward to the earth, in storms or 
calmsj 
Steps which gives superb prospects to the sky, 
And stimulate humanity to pry 
Into Divinity — its suns and fanes. 

96 



an ©pic of i^eatoen 

Homer, that glorious step, how grand to try 

And climb it ! From Dante's step e'en the 
plains 
Of the departed can be kenn'd. Shakespeare's 

Shows diversity in entireness. Milton's 
Shows scenes sublime. Goethe's in beauty rears. 

And lovely views give Burns' and Emerson's. 
The needs of souls find here and there a rise 

Of steps divine to help them to the skies. 



II II 



MY HORSE. 

MY horse I sometimes think of; where is he? 
Companion in the war for many a day. 

His graceful, glossy flanks of ruby bay, 
His delicate head, with eyes that beamed on me 
Good-naturedly and friendly, or in plea? 

Fleet-limbed and full of courage for the fray. 

Enduring in the march, though long the way ; 
Through hunger, dust ,and thirst; where may 
he be? 

I doubt he lives. Myself am somewhat gray. 
And man has tvv^ce the travel of a horse. 
Fm glad I think of him without remorse, 

For kindly was he used in service long. 

I'm glad we parted friends ; I heard his neigh 
Over the peach field, like a farewell song! 



97 



an ©pic of ^eatoen 



TO THE SHADE OF WOLT WHITMAN. 

THOU lover of the cosmos vague and vast, 
In which thy virile mind would penetrate 
Unto the rushing, primal springs of fate, 
Ruling alike the future, present, past ; 
Now, having breasted waves beyond death's 
blast, ^ 
New Neptune's steeds saluted, white and 

great, 
And entered through the glorious Golden 
Gate, 
And gained the fair celestial shores at last. 
Still worship'st thou the Ocean? thou that tried 
To comprehend its mental roar and surge. 
Its howling as of victory, and its dirge 
For continents submerged by shock and tide. 
By that immortal ocean now what cheer? 
Do crews patrol and save the same as here? 

ff ;*f;i <^1 

-ii- -ii- 'ii' 

NEW YORK CITY. 

SITTING at rest, great city of the West, 
Almost surrounded by strait, river, bay; 
Absorbing all that come and with thee stay ; 
Making true lovers of earth's very best. 
Who cannot praise thee too much in their zest. 
Old Hendrick Hudson could not in his day 
Dream of this growth so great ; for then blue 
jay 

98 



an Cpic of ^eatoen 

And forest birds abounded, and could nest. 

At times thou seemest too soft and easy going.. 
Giving thy sons and daughters too free times ; 
But when they go too far thou makest them 

smart ; 
Rewarding them who good deeds have been 
growing, 
Punishing them found guilty of foul crimes. 
Beneath thy vesture beats a great, kind heart. 

fl II II 
PASSED OVER THE BRIDGE. 

WATCHING, through vigils long, the arch 
of light 
Spanning the bridge, uniting cities large, 
Who doubts his mind took note of all the 
charge 
Approaching dissolution with its blight 

Had put upon him? Through the long sad 
nights 
He mused on life, death and eternity. 
Beyond these shadows, where the soul would be 

Enraptured at the glorious heavenly sights. 
He thought of this and them he'd leave behind 
To all the moil and duty of this life. 
Their future meeting, far from earthly strife; 
And, gazing on this arch, in his clear mind 
In time he saw the bridge lights to that shore 
Where pain, and death and sorrow come no 
more. 

99 



an (Epic of ^ea\3en 



BETTER THAN HE KNEW. 

A BAD man in his garden found a weed 
That caused him trouble, so he thought 
he'd take 
And cultivate it, so that he might make 
It more a source of misery by its seed, 

And thereby trouble neighbors, good and bad, 
Much valued time he spent in labor hard. 
Developing this thing in his back yard ; 
And vi^hen he deemed this noisome weed he had 
Grown to perfection, as to smell and size, 

To injure much his neighbor's cheerful 

grounds. 
When night had spread her mantle on his 
rounds 
He went, scattering its seeds. To his surprise 
His culture had developed pleasing powers — 
Each plant grew up the home of fragrant 
flowers. 



A MIDSUMMER THOUGHT. 

WE love this earth, somehow, if young or 
old; 
And though 'tis often censured, still 'tis ours, 
And though weeds multiply, it has its flowers, 
With climates ranging wide from heat to cold; 

loo 



an dEpic of ^eatoen 

And he must lack the mind's true scope who can 
Go through all without a grateful thought 
At the concordant comeliness that's wrought 

On sea and shore, mountain and plain, for man. 

Sometimes I think that earth will ever keep 
Us chained unto its bosom, strangely wed; 
That when unto dim eyes we may seem dead, 

Our souls will still be active, not asleep. 
But living in the essence ; conscious, too, 
That 'neath us is the sward, and over us the 
blue. 

m w w 

THE POEM. 

'npHOUGH singers are many, with songs of 
-■- cheer. 

The poem's not born every day of the year. 
Earth's corners are searched well to find the 

seed, 
And the finder thereof is rare indeed. 

The rich or the poor, clear eyed or the blind, 
One or the other the treasure will find : 
Will give it a name — it has its own wings — 
To start on the journey the comfort it brings. 



lOI 



an (Epic of l^eatien 



BELLS OF MORNING. 

EACH morning, as I lie in bed, 
I hear a far-off bell's sweet tone 
Welcoming the day gleams, rosy red, 
And telling me that night has flown. 

So one, upon his dying bed, 
Hears bells of a celestial tone 

Welcome the soul far overhead. 

And telling him that death has flown. 

II II II 
NEVER SAW THE STARS. 

WE read that "Ninus never saw the stars." 
Rivers of gold were his and armies 
great, 
And jewels, wines and raiment to elate. 
But these possessions were his eye sight's bars. 

Those stars, which beautify the upper court, 
Should we neglect for lamps of gain and 
spoil ? 

Better the beacon guiding honest ships 

Than wreckers' torch at an unworthy port. 
Better the Polar star in steady moil. 

Than comet flaming in erratic dips. 

102 



A 



M 



an (Epic of t^eatien 



MUSIC. 

LL things had reached creation, but stood 

still, 

Awaiting the Divine creative sign 
To move with life eternal ; and His will 
Chose music for the signal, gift divine ! 

II II II 

A VILLAGE MAID. 

YRA hath beauties pleasant to behold; 
Her silken crown's adornment for a 
queen ; 
Her eyes are windows where the soul is seen '^ 
Her mind's a store of treasure, good as gold ; 
Her heart is to be won, you say, not sold. 

Never before beneath earth's arching skies 
Was such enchantment in a maiden's eyes; 

And yet she's in the market to be sold. 
Never was village maiden such a prize, 

Who bids? Bid high, in love, not gold. 

II II II 

BOOK CATALOGUES. 

OOK catalogues : I here confess 
Their publishers I often bless. 
My modest purse may be too thin ^ 
To buy the treasures named therein ; 

103 



B 



an (Epic of peahen 

The giant names I love not less. 
Books from the era of Queen Bess, 
Marlowe and Shakespeare in new dress ; 
Abbott or Addison may begin 

Book catalogues. 
Big names or little, nevertheless 
I muse on what each may express ; 
In cloth, morocco, or calfskin, 
Ah, how I love to read within ! 
Knowledge is there ,and cheerfulness ; 

Book catalogues. 



GOD. 

WHAT giveth its taste to the cucumber? 
What bestoweth perfume on the helio- 
trope ? 
What with beauty endoweth the maiden? 
What wdth stars doth enjewel the midnight? 
What food groweth in the beards of the wheat? 
Say Nature, Evolution, what you will, 
But how much simpler is the grand word, God ! 

II II II 

ONE DAY. 

T^EATH came along one day 
•*-^ And asked his pay : 

The life of a child. 

104 



an (Epic of l^eaijen 

In this world, right and left, 
Parents are thus bereft, 
The child but smiled. 

Shall we, too, smile, 
And after a while 
Be reconciled? 



m II 



THEOLOGY. 

WORSHIP of God is laudable; 
His truest name is audible, 
So that the spirit ear may hear. 

Hell is the fitting recompense 
Of uncouth actions, lacking sense, 
Stifling the laugh, causing the tear. 

Heaven is the fruit of fruitfulness, 
The answer of true life, to bless ; 
Work and development are here. 



%^' %g W , 

THE TREND TOWARD THE SKY. 

SOME years agone a would-be seer pro- 
claimed 
That he was witness and he saw the sight 

105 



an ©pic of i^eatien 

Of spirit form o'er sufferer, illness maimed, 
And when death came he saw it take its flight. 

This truth or fancy had a strata sound. 

Of late X-ray experiments 'tis writ, 
That when life left the body it was found 

A shadow-substance rose and went from it. 



BRAIN GONE ASTRAY. 

BRAIN gone astray, he ends his earthly days, 
And deems that life to him is ever over. 
Do we, now left behind to blame or praise, 
Believe the human soul can run to cover ? 



DESTINY. 

WHETHER we see it in the lowly snake, 
Or in the wisdom of the primal cause, 
'Tis all the same — we sleep, and dream, and 
wake 
To opening vistas of earth's splendid laws. 

Who now shall say that some of us are not 
Held back in check, or moved to effort grand. 

By power supreme, that we can never blot, 
Or grasp in fullness or its force command? 

io6 



an (Bpit of J|)eai)en 



ONE FAITHFUL LISTENER. 

HE dipped his pen into his heart and wrote 
Poems that few would hear or under- 
stand ; 
Like some wild song bird in a lonely land 
Pouring abroad its sweet and soul-thrilled note. 

And yet perchance on that untravelled way 
Some unknown soul may greet liim with a look 
Of thanks intense for something in his book 
That on the mind has thrown a sunny ray. 
Better one faithful listener than a crowd 
Of soulless ones, half-hearted, shouting loud. 



II II II 
THE RAINBOW. 

THE rainbow, with its colors seven, 
Makes the fairest arch of heaven 
When the rain is nearly done 
Opposite the shining sun. 

II II II 

A NEW YEAR'S NIGHT OF LONG AGO. 



O 



NE New Year's night of long ago 
I heard the ringing bugles blow 
Over the wide Virginia field, 

107 



Zn (Epic of l^eatjen 

Which we and war had forced to yield, 
At times camp ground and frozen bed ; 
At times a burial for our dead. 

One New Year's night of long ago 
I heard the tattoo bugles blow, 
Artillery and cavalry, 
So different, yet in harmony. 
Their music I can ne'er forget; 
I seem to hear them ringing yet! 

Gone are the brave who held that field 
Across whose frost the bugles pealed ; 
Comrades are they in tents more white 
Than marked Virginia's soil that night. 
Yet as on that night of long ago 
I hear once more the bugles blow. 



io8 



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